6 Ways To Stop “Future-Tripping” And Be Present In Your Life

Posted on July 12, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

“Be happy in the moment, that’s enough. Each moment is all we need, not more.”
― Mother Teresa

I’m coming up on a milestone birthday this year – a really big one. Social media is reminding me of this every day, as I watch one high school classmate after another hit the ‘big one’.

Of course, the ‘big one’ might be a relative term for many of us – life has so many milestone markers for us that it seems we are always stumbling towards one or another, aren’t we?

Was 16 the ‘big one’ for you? 21? 30? 35? 40?

50?

And parallel to this march towards a half-century are my children’s milestone markers, not just found in numbers, but moments along the way as well.

Those ordinary, extraordinary moments that as a parent take my breath away and remind me that the only way to move forward, to not blindly push through milestones and markers, is to breathe, to be present, to look up at life with my eyes wide open and my heart vulnerable.

It’s a daily struggle, to be sure. I make my own markers along the way, rituals I use, reminders I send, to train my highly sensitive body to stop, to breathe, to remember all will be well.

To be honest, it’s hard work for me. It’s a conscious awareness that my natural inclination to think forward, to plan, to control, isn’t always serving me in the best way possible. The hard work comes to remember that being here, now, allows fears of the past and future to fade away, and allows me to inhale every beautiful second of life, of motherhood, of simply being.

Not being present breeds restlessness. It forces the interior wiring to hyper-speed, to thinking too far ahead – ‘future tripping’, a friend once dubbed it.

So when time feels like it is spinning off its axis, when my worries send me off center, I try one of these six ways to stop ‘future-tripping’ and find my way back:

1. Put yourself on “time out”. Remember when the kids were little and this was a ‘consequence’? I say, take one! Do what you like to do, even if it’s just for 30 minutes. Cook a healthy meal. Bake something delicious. Dig in the soft soil of your garden. Close your eyes and dream. Pet the dog. Curl up under the covers. Whatever it is, make sure it’s something to nurture yourself.

2. Find your center. Finding places to express your gratitude will make you feel more connected. One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, offers a simple meditation I use frequently: “Help. Thanks. Wow.” Write them down, whisper them to the universe, or meditate on them throughout the day. It’s an amazing transformation. Give yourself reminders throughout the day – I use the “Tell Me Later” app to send quotes to my phone at times in the day I know are particularly challenging for me to stay centered.

3. Make a list. OK- list making satisfies my inner teacher-mom. I have a general list of priorities, hopes and things-I’d-really-love-to-do-someday, and then each morning I choose a few to tackle in the upcoming day. They don’t always get done, but it’s amazing how when I commit to writing them down, I feel compelled to at least start. And plus, crossing it off when I’m finished is so satisfying! Sometimes seeing our responsibilities in front of us we realize they’re not as overwhelming as we once thought.

4. Take a walk. I gave up running years ago, and find that making time for a daily walk helps me to slow down. I like to get away from people (introvert-raising-hand-wildly) so I can really feel the rhythm of my stride and sense the solitude wash down my body. I like the consistency of a familiar path each day, and delight in the small surprises of nature, water, and sky.

5. Breathe. Seriously – pay attention to it. I’m considering setting a “Tell Me Later” reminder just for this – a gentle nudge to inhale, exhale and slow.it.down.

6. Find my balance. For the longest time I was so caught up in the treadmill of raising small children, managing a home, teaching school and trying to maintain friendships that I lost my balance. I threw away those little joys – like writing in my journal and reading a great novel – because I thought I had too many other responsibilities. After teetering dangerously out of balance, I’ve learned to not deny my inner planner – I think about what can I do for today, and how I can balance it all. We each have the same number of hours in our day – and we get to choose how we spend them. Take small steps, one at a time, to return to the fulcrum of your life.

I’ll be honest – being present sometimes feels like a chore. It sometimes seems easier to push ourselves to the end of the line, to view our life through a camera lens hoping to watch the replay some other time. Life is contracting before it expands; that squeezing sensation is the universe reminding you to trust, to open your eyes and look around. When you stop ‘future tripping’ and pay attention to the glorious, messy, sometimes chaotic but always real life before you, the universe will respond bountifully.

Remember: the milestones in your life are markers of a life well lived. Don’t you want to be present to celebrate?

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Parents, Did You Teach Your Children To Weed?

Posted on July 8, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

I think I’m what some people call a natural-born-teacher. It’s in my blood; teachers sprout from my family tree for generations upon generations. It’s no surprise that as a parent, I’ve been an education task-master. You think preacher’s kids have it rough? Think about being a teacher’s kid. You’re constantly the guinea pig for lesson plans, you have access to the endless books and supplies and strategies constantly brought into your home, and more than anything else, you are your parent’s prize pupil.

Needless to say, I’ve taught my kids lots of things. Oh yes, we worked on letters and numbers and the alphabet. They were read to and sung to and taken on adventure after adventure. Lily and I spent hours creating our own reality tv cooking show; when I was in labor with my second child, three-year-old Lily could make french toast and show Grandma where I kept the coffee maker. She evolved into a perfectionista baking goddess who found Wednesday afternoon stress relief mixing butter, sugar, flour and vanilla into delectable bites of goodness. Cameron, now a teen, will spend hours in the kitchen leaving a trail of disaster in his wake, yet arise with a smile and display a dish that would rival an Iron Chef on Food Network.

We taught them to love all kinds of sports, to learn from traveling the world, to paint and draw and sculpt and build and design and tried to engage their every creative and educational curiosity. And now as they’re growing up and away and into their own lives, I find myself asking – did I teach my children to weed? Did I teach them to discover and evaluate and search deeply for what really matters in life?

Parents, teach your children to weed before it’s too late. Take them outdoors and teach them to look at the beauty around them. Show them the messiness of life’s landscape and remind them that they don’t have to bloom where they’re planted – they can change what they don’t like in life. Teach them that they can uproot, they can replant, and keep moving and trying and re-doing until they get it just right.

Teach your children that weeds are the ones that look like they’ll flower but won’t. That sometimes life gets sticky, and can unexpectedly crawl up the vines you’ve carefully trained. Teach them that weeds can be all at once beautiful and fluffy and then with one breath, with one small burst of air they will scatter into directions you never intended – or expected. It will never be perfect. Some weeds will come back; some will be gone forever. You get to choose.

Teach your children to weed – to put both knees in the soil, even when it’s muddy and full of manure. Teach them to get into the center of their life, to get dirty and not fear what’s in front of them.

Teach them to not always yank and pull randomly at life, but to think about what’s underneath, and what the bigger design for their life might be. There’s always unexpected beauty beneath the surface.

Stargazer lilies in my garden

Teach your children to pay attention, to delight in small discoveries in life, like tulips sprouting at the first sign of spring, or a lily straining to grow and share her exquisiteness – just like them.

Don’t wait too long to teach your children to weed – now’s the time. In the blink of an eye, neglected gardens become beds of weeds, requiring much more effort to put back in order. And if you feel like you’ve waited too long, don’t worry. Just do it. Starting is always the scariest part of it all, but if you don’t start now, then when?

Remember to take it one section at a time – take breaks. All those weeds didn’t all grow in one day – it will take awhile to get it the way you want it. Sometimes season after season it will keep coming back, and one day – if you keep at it – it will be gone. It’s OK to stop when you’re tired; self-care is an important skill to learn.

Finally, stop and admire your work. Make life pleasant – listen to the birds, fill a hummingbird feeder or watch the butterflies land on the flowers. Admire your hard work. Hug your children tightly, tell them you love them and watch them grow into amazing creatures. Your efforts will pay off, I promise.

Jennifer Wolfe

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What Parenting Battles Are You Fighting?

Posted on July 5, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

He said to me the other day, “Mom, I don’t get it. Sometimes you’re totally chill, and then sometimes you want to know everything. You need to trust me. I’m not crazy, you know.”

That one got me thinking. Am I that inconsistent? Or is he just smart enough to see what’s really going on beneath the surface?

Parenting is sort of like going to battle without a plan. We start off as new parents overjoyed with the idea of life ahead, and for the most part, joy is the overriding emotion of my parenting experience.

And then life happens. Infants turn into toddlers, then third graders, thirteen year olds, and suddenly the teenage years smack us over the head when we weren’t looking. The skirmishes begin in full force.

Let the parenting battle begin-and parents, you’d better be ready.

Some days the plan of attack is subtle, but not without strife, to be sure. Get your homework done before video games, complete your chore list without complaining, and study for finals. That’s the easy stuff.

It’s the harder issues that lead to full engagement, wondering if a ceasefire will ever be possible. The ones that leave you with the ache in your gut. The ones that make you dive for the parenting handbook and leave you breathless with worry. The ones that you just need to ride out and trust that things will work themselves out.

Yesterday’s choice wasn’t one of those legendary philosophical decisions. For many people it would have been quite simple. It was normal kid stuff, things that maybe some parents don’t even blink at. But I do.

It really was about teenage decision making – trusting that his frontal lobe was keeping up with his intelligence. This is something I’ve been taking into consideration this year, now that he’s 15 and full of confidence.

Last summer, I had finally come to a place where I felt ok with him living away from home. I felt comfortable with his community, with his coaches, and with his friends. I felt like he was on a strong, health path. He was young – but he knew what he wanted.

Then came the phone call last August, when he broke his leg and I changed my ‘chill’ attitude. Suddenly, he was vulnerable again, and I fell into mamawolfe mode and all the doubts, the ‘proof’ that ‘things happen’, and now I’m caught in the mental battle of how far to let him go, how do I trust that he will be safe.

Watching the news sure doesn’t help – just last night I reminded him that if we listen to the stories, none of us should walk out of our house, light a firework or travel to a big city for the 4th of July.

Terrifying, if you think about it too hard. Terrifying to think about the battles going on in our world, let alone within the mind of a teenage boy full of hormones.

And this is where my angst set in, where I struggled with the parenting battle lines. What do you stand up for, what do you let slide? When do we trust that all those years of hand holding and teaching and boundaries pay off in their solid decision making? Where does the intersection of our own fears and our common sense lead us, when we come to a four-way stop and need to decide what is best for our child?

When do we let our kids just be kids, and push away all the fears – rational or irrational – and trust that everything will just be OK?

This is perhaps one of the most formidable parts about parenting – the struggle between throwing down the gauntlet, honoring the change in our children, recognizing the growth they’ve made from preschool to high school, and taking that deep breath, holding it for just a second, and releasing it with a quiet, “yes”.

Because when you think about it, the most indomitable parenting battles are really within ourselves, aren’t they?

Jennifer Wolfe

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This Is What A School Lock Down Feels Like, Part Two

Posted on June 29, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

One hour later…

A new email vibrated my phone. “The police are checking the campus. They will come to your room. You must open the door.”

Are you kidding me? Open the door to what? The curtain is enough of a false sense of security – I don’t want to open anything. We’re safe here, in the dark, on the floor. They’re quiet. They have their games on their phones and cards and chess and they’re not making a sound…and they feel ok. They trust me.

I knew my room would be the first one checked. Whispering a warning to the class, I softly stepped around bodies and bags and board games. I’d done everything I could to take their minds off of the fear. Now I had to open up to the outside.

The knock came as predicted, and I pushed open the door. He stood there, in full gear, gun drawn. “Are you ok? Is everyone here?” The words wouldn’t come. I was fixated on the one behind him, holding the bigger gun. “Yyyyyes, we’re here. We’re ok.” I looked down at the boys at my feet. Their eyes were wide open, taking it all in. I had no idea they would be able to see all this. I’m sure, like me, they’ve never been that close to a gun.

I closed the door and quickly locked it from the inside, hanging the lanyard around my neck. My breath came rapidly. Hold it together. You are safe. Cameron is safe. You can do this. I was responsible for these children. This was real.

Creeping back to my spot, reassuring students as I went past, I felt the tone change around me. They knew this wasn’t a drill. They knew something bad was happening. I prayed they couldn’t sense my nervousness. We could hear the officers banging on each door in the building, and then silence.

That was a good thing.

Two hours later…

The beanbag chair saved me. I didn’t realize how sore I could get sitting cross-legged for two hours on the floor. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how I could make a toilet – I knew that would come soon. My phone flashed with messages from my sisters, sending me news reports to supplement the little information we had on the inside. I knew the kids had their phones, but the darkness kept me from doing much. If I was their parent, I would want to know they were safe. I stayed silent.

The emails were coming every 30 minutes or so. “Stay calm. We are safe. We will keep you posted” were words of comfort, but I couldn’t help wonder if everyone else was ok. The stillness was frightening.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life. “The lock down is over. Please remain in your rooms until 3:15 dismissal.”

We’re safe. It’s over. I’m still not unlocking the door. What happened? Did anyone get hurt? Where is Cam?

We stood up, our bodies creaking and peeling ourselves out of our hiding places. With the lights on, I could finally see their eyes – now with a glint of relief, of anticipation, with question. Slowly, the kids hugged and gathered their sweatshirts and lunchboxes strewn around the room. We stretched and pushed the desks back and tried to make it feel normal, like any other Friday afternoon. Fifteen more minutes together. We could do this.

We did do this. We are safe. We did made it. They will see their parents, hug them and collapse into their arms.

It wasn’t our time.

photo credit: Campus police… via photopin (license)

Jennifer Wolfe

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This Is What A School Lock Down Feels Like, Part One

Posted on June 23, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

As I sat huddled on the floor of my classroom on a sticky hot Friday afternoon, I couldn’t believe how quiet 34 12 and 13-year-olds could be. I knew it was broad daylight, but with my heavy curtains pulled and the lights off, I couldn’t see any of their faces. I imagined what they looked like; their hair would be slightly askew, their brows sweaty from playing basketball at lunch. The smiles and laughs of our afternoon class would be erased, replaced by fear in their eyes and an unwillingness to let anyone see them cry. My mind raced as I went through my mental checklist – had he made it back from the bathroom before I slammed and locked the door? Did J make it under the desk with his broken ankle and crutches? Where were my interns? In an instant, I transformed from a facilitator of learning to a commander of safety.

I listened in the quiet and then whispered, “You’re ok. We will be fine. You are safe.”

No one whispered back.

Sadly, this wasn’t the first lock down I’ve experienced in 25 years of teaching, but this one felt different. It was no drill, that was for sure. The principal’s voice over the intercom was clear and firm, but I knew something was terribly wrong.

Desperate for information, I weighed the risk of standing up to walk to my desk. I knew the news would come via email, but there was a crack of light where the curtains didn’t quite cover the window – a crack big enough for a shooter to aim and fire. And it was directly behind my desk.

Sirens punctured the silence. We could hear them stopping in front of the school. I could feel the fear in the stillness of my classroom.

My laptop glowed in the darkness, but I couldn’t hear the ping of a new email. I knew before long the questions would start. I wanted to have an answer. I wanted to have something to soothe their minds while they waited, curled up under the tables, packed together like kittens seeking warmth from their mother. The silence wasn’t going to last.

Crouching down, I crept to my desk, my eyes scanning my inbox. “Keep all kids inside. Keep doors and windows locked. Do not let anyone in or out. We’ve received a threat and will send more information soon.” Slightly reassuring; I had been hoping for something better-something that would make me feel like we would be ok.

I felt the blood drain through my body. A threat. 34 children. 3 interns. And my own son out there, somewhere. Three of his classmates were with me – I knew they’d been delivering invitations when the lock down happened. Had he made it back in time?

I grabbed my cell phone and slunk back to the floor space. The screen lit up with a text from Cameron, “Mom, what’s happening? There’re cops everywhere.”

He’s safe. Gratitude washed over my heart. “I don’t know, son. Where are you?”

“I’m in my classroom. Mom, is this real?”

“I don’t know. Stay safe. I love you.”

“Mrs. Wolfe….Mrs. Wolfe,” came a barely audible voice through the darkness. “Do our parents know? Do they know what’s going on?”

They’re 12 years old, I thought. They want their parents. They’re just children – my children, now – and I’m it. It’s up to me.

“Mrs. Wolfe, can I hold this?” I crept close to the voice and saw her dark eyes. She was holding a pink stuffed elephant. I’d forgotten that box was under the computer table.

“Of course, sweetie,” I whispered back. Now was the time to move. “Class, you are fine. You are safe. I will take care of you. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know the police are here to protect us. You must stay quiet. Your parents will know we’re in lock down. You are safe here in our room. I will let you know as soon as I find out anything.”

My stomach lurched as I navigated around the discarded backpacks back to my spot on the floor. Another email – no news. “Get comfortable,” I breathed into the dead air. “This could be awhile.”

to be continued…

photo credit: One Hundred and Thirty Five via photopin (license)

Jennifer Wolfe

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